CHAPTER
41-42-43/A-B-C
HELL
IS FIXED IN STONE AND FIRE
This
is quite true, it is fixed all right. And on top of that, something
is crystal clear to me that was not when I was younger. “THEY'RE IN
YOUR HEAD”, and “YOU AND THEM ARE THE SAME THIN”. THIS is what
creates the conscious to unconscious barrier that to this day is
still grossly misunderstood by the greatest psychiatrists of the
world. They get into a lot of heads all over the world. I have
managed to talk myself into a possibility but there is no guarantee I
am right, calling them the ESS. I may be as clueless as fucking
Poolroy-95, and this may something entirely different, but I am on
the right track with this, folks, I promise you! They are in a lot of
heads. Mine, yours, the whole nine yards, computers, even the heads
of the hackers. When I came up the first time to start this short
blog, I noticed immediately that my Spell-Checker system, in my
Open-Office Program, had been disabled.
Still
people, without people being influenced in totally stealthy ways or
not, stuff does happen naturally and totally independent of what my
story of ten years now, discusses in such a great length, with long
drawn out specifics of numerous possible explanations to age old
unsolved mysteries of humankind and Planet Earth. Right about now a
lot of folks are wondering if AFTER-MORIANITY is about to spring some
real huge and brand new stuff on you all out here. Maybe and maybe
not, we will see, but for right now, suppose we go with this: Several
months ago I left my Vero Beach, Florida, USA Psych Place, and drove
home, stopping at the same place that I did back last Wednesday, and
went to a Chinese Restaurant for a take-out. Only once was a fortune
cookie put into my bag, and it had nothing to do with the size of my
order, as that was a relatively small order when the cookie came with
it, and since then, I have ordered a lot more, yet only that one
time, did a 'cookie' come along for the
ride, 'disabled' or not huh Firefox.
Folks, I have nothing against anybody on this planet or off of it
somewhere for that matter, not a blessed or cursed thing, I assure
you. All my blogs ever have attempted to do, is to tell what has been
done to me, in a very unfair and monstrous-mean way, for just about
my entire life, if NOT MY ENTIRE LIFE,
spanning nearly 61 years now, as Mark Wayne Mohr.
I
fully know that a few people out here think that I am going to do
something beyond Earth-shaking such as print the lottery number for
the Powerball Jackpot along with dates and the exact prize pay outs,
or maybe tell you the details of some wild political, financial, or
other global issues. Not only won't I do this, but it wouldn't matter
if I did. Only really enlightened 'souls' understand that sentence in
full detail. Trying to further elucidate upon it would be a waste of
your time, and my time.
I
am spending a lot of time in parallel universes recently, where I
live here in this building, and interact with many unpleasant people,
not that I don't do that right here in this universe, but it gets
crazier over there. Last night was not an exception. I was in my next
lifetime, and my name was Jo-Jo. Trump was in it and was about to
turn 100 years old, and somehow knew that I was still me, the me-now,
that is. He came over and insisted on telling me why I was living
here in that universe, and not in Atlantic City, and I kept telling
him I could care less, and he would chuckle and do that cool thing
with his arms that makes Mister Trump, Mister Trump. I am unable to
blog it all, but I will say that I totally believe that he not only
knows about this right here and now, BUTTTTTTTT, he also knows a few
other things, and that is all I am going to say. Why I was living
here in my next lifetime in that other parallel-reality is also way
too complicated, as well as dangerous, for me to attempt to blog, at
least right now. I do know that he couldn't stop laughing, even at
age 100, when he saw something in my apartment, on my wall. Now over
here in present life, I have absolutely nothing on my walls, they are
all bare, and I am not a member of the Rose
Jacobey Annoyers Association/Club of Williamstown-Highview. I
will tell you what this was on my wall. It was the instructions in
full detail, to operate the mighty
secret FASCITAR-6-10. I suppose I am the only person alive,
who has ever seen a 100 year old man totally crack up with raucous
laughter. It was in all honesty, quite a sight to freaking behold,
lads and lassies.
Now
forgetting cookies of all types, weird paranormal activity,
hyperspace and parallel realities, and
all OZ-CURTAINS everywhere, for a moment or so; let me talk
around a few things and be careful, all Paula's, so heads don't go
rolling; oh great kisser Queen. Don't murder me James Bond, please.
So back on Bunker Queens pernt
here folks; what I say to people, and in various situations as well,
seems to have major effects on this simulation system, owned by the
Almighty teen-goddess, SSJKK! Even though I did not tell intimate
details or name any names, at my councilor's office at the psych
place, back five days ago, it seems to have had some pretty
coincidence defying effects on Planet Earth. However, I believe fully
and whole heartedly, that there is more to this than just me going
there last Wednesday, discussing for three minutes a repressed memory
I was carrying around from '72 through '08, and then all hell
breaking loose around me after I left to come home. Way way way more,
but just exactly what? Well, this indeed will be delved into and
explored as more blogs come. As for right now, I clearly remember
being stopped from being able to blog when I was doing it from the
library, back in the summer of 2010 at Fort Pierce, while living up
in the hood, at Avenue e and 26th Street; and then that
was followed by big stock market action. Then we compare the
recent cookie disabling with Firefox Browser and Google-Blogger
Web-site, and then big market action the other way now, when this did
not prevent me from blogging, and shutting me down successfully, as
miraculously, I had my old browser still up there which also had been
disabled, only somehow Norton had repaired it after a year or so, all
by itself. But there is a lot more. However, it is part of the
nightmare last night, with Cuzz Donnie Boy, in the future as well as
in a parallel world of course, as is the case with all of our
''dreaming-interactions''. I am getting another DEATH-ANGER attack on
my right side, at 8:12 PM, as I type and speak, and now it is going
away. There are complicated dreams inside of dreams and memories
inside of memories that would take me a long time to properly explain
and address, but to build an amateur's foundation to this; I will say
only this following item. A person suddenly remembers a dream as they
go through their waking day because something is triggering the
memory to come out of deeper consciousness when that trigger is
suddenly exposed. I don't care if it is a blue sports car driving by
playing the old silly song from 1973 called, Shidaleedee, or whatever
it might be; it is the dream and the memory that needs to be
surfaced, that is causing the car to go by playing the song. You may
say on the face of it that this would involve complexity that no one
could ever manage to be in any way in control of. You would be
correct. But computers can be lightning fast and a powerful enough
one is indeed capable of doing extremely intricate and complex steps
in a very short period of time, all by knowing that zero means no
voltage and one means there is a voltage. The greatest machines out
there to be bought by ordinary people and wealthy folks alike, are
still not in any way, including any meaningful artificial
intelligence. To think, a machine needs to be so powerful and so fast
in knowing zero and one reality, that we are a long way off even
still, from having this. For anyone not living through my life, to be
able to read this ten year long blog project (Morianity), and put my
life into real meaningful perspective; they would have to be an
Einstein. I accept that truth, yet on I go, telling this powerful
story that seemingly only ends, when I do, as present-me. Now a lot
of things never end for anyone, and for that matter, they don't
really begin, but merely fit into an illusion, that seemingly makes
this appear as reality. With me, not all things connect into Sarah,
and my search to find her indeed brought Morianity into being, or so
one might think. It, like all things, is extremely complicated; and
nothing ever is truly what it seems to be.
It
began when George Belton first took me to Resorts Casino in Atlantic
City, and introduced me to casino-roulette playing. From there things
were down hill all the way, leading to my first trip to Florida one
year after George first began doing this in December of 1982, during
my final months at 1802 Robin Farm-Outside-of-Future-Haddonfield Hill
Apartments, in Voorhees, New Jersey. The mysterious Warwick Auto
Sales, owned by the even more mysterious Mister Everett Simpson,
well, this is a story that could go on for 1000 Moby Dick sized
books, and I don't plan on boring you. I call this the end of 82 set
up that led to the land of mystery, or for short, the
EO1982SUTLTTLOM, my own little coded alpha-numeric private, and one
of so very many; headings to outlined stories for future postings,
when things are more in the swing for telling the world about these
things, one by one. I can say without a question, that even beyond my
choking condition that lasted for life, and my nightmare crossover
into hell in 1986 from some weird strange ''dreaming'', that these
two events, huge as they are; both are simply existing inside of this
even larger truth, and that being, this early December of 1982
situation at this auto repair garage place near the intersection of
the White Horse Pike and Warwick road, in Magnolia, New Jersey; and
just a little over a mile away from Robin Hill Apartments Complex;
and I knew this all along, but when it came to doing blogs, I never
actually made it appear this way, focusing much more on the two large
incidents that followed my becoming connected with these people
there, the owner Mister Simpson, and then his two side kicks, Herby
Letts, and George Belton. Herby worked for Simpson, while George was
the weird 'hang-around' guy, and had no connections with the place. I
was there to purchase a vehicle to allow me to get the money I needed
to leave that horrible Debbie Harry and her friend and their horrific
loud weekend parties, and move out of there and into Atco, New
Jersey. So I needed to take my nicer vehicle, and trade down on it,
so that I could put the needed moving cash into my pocket, and this
is exactly what I did back then, and how these folks and I all
managed to cross paths, Mister Redfield. There is some real loud
hallway yelling at 7:26, suppose the fawces of Mister Hall do not
want me talking about Everett Simpson, the man of mysteries. You only
know a tiny smattering of things that could have landed me in prison,
there is a lot to this powerful story, most will not be talked about
for reasons of my obvious safety, both from highly dangerous people,
and even, problems with the law which I certainly do not need,
despite the statues of limitation, I believe, running out on what was
done, but in case certain tings such as murder do not ever run out,
and no, there was no murder; still, I am not sure what is covered in
this cold period, so I am keeping quiet.
Not
even two years after I met these creepy weird people, it was spring
time somewhere in 1984, and Trump was going to open his casino called
the PLAZA, his very first one, in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Why I
could not tell you in a million years, but I wanted to go down on
opening day, and began to drive from my residence to the casino in
Atlantic City. I was living right back at the Robin Hill allover
again, for my second out of three total stays in this hellish
nightmare place, other than for my first 14-24 months there in 1980
and most of 1981 when that mysterious incident happened that I
blogged several times about, where magically, that evil Playboy bunny
just popped up out of the blue one night, right after somebody heard
me tell my mom in that bugged apartment, that I was going to have my
friend Jim Burr look at the place downstairs as he is interested in
renting it. It was all fake, I had handed her a note to read, telling
her to just play along and I then winked at her, and then I went off
to work, and when I came back for the river at the Mac Andrews and
Forbes Plant where I did security guard work there, a light was on in
the apartment,and she had moved in just in those hours while I was
working. But this is old news, and we are on the exploratron subject
recently, and need to discuss what pertains most to this, not that
she and her friends were not also, host bodies to inter-dimensional
exploratrons coming awake in them from their controlled dreams in
their own parallel universes. Still I am more interested in
discussing another person who I know had an exploratron inside of
him, the young dude gasoline station owner in Hammonton, New Jersey,
named Jerry, back in 1984. My mother told me he has to be on drugs,
but looking back, NO HE DIDN'T HAVE TO BE ON DRUGS. Many weird acting
folks are, maybe the majority of them are; but some of them, ladies
and gentlemen, are not. Instead they are what in the old days would
be called ''possessed''. They are what in the new age Ufology days
would be called controlled abductees. Neither of these things are
real, but what is happening is very real. THEY HAVE AN ACTIVE
TYPE-2-EXPLORATRON INSIDE OF THEM, asleep in their universe, and over
here in ours, they have taken control over the person, and can do all
sorts of stuff to many innocent people, by using these basic sleep
walkers as pawns and tools and puppets and yes I'll say it, AS
WEAPONS! Another possibility for why people suddenly go and shoot up
malls and schools and work places, and you name it. This Jerry made
my life, and the life of my poor mom, a total hell. He was being
controlled by my cousin Donald. First, on the way down to his hotel
and casino, somehow, he had my car blow up, and I barely made it to
this gasoline station, the one in Hammonton, owned by this Jerry
character. This all was totally planned out millions of years ago. He
ended up putting a new engine in the vehicle, a total joke, as the
car was 10 times worse when the job was done, than before; and twice,
my mom and I went to pick it up, and ended up taking the bus down to
his station, breaking down 2 blocks away or less, and waiting for a
bus right back home again. He had us literally going out of our
minds, and the entire state was in on all of our miseries, as just
from watching shows on TV like Judge Judy, I know that these
repeating incidents that happened to us for 20 plus years back in
Jersey, just does not happen and that innocent folks who get totally
scammed and ripped off do have some legal recourse, yet each time we
tried talking to anyone about getting any, we were just fucked and
fucked and fucked, all the more. If you live in Jersey, have big name
enemies, and have no one in your corner to fight for you such as a
politician or three in your pocket,
you might as well dig a hole and jump in, or move the hell far away,
as did fucking cunt eating I, back in December of 'OHM-9'.
This
Jerry character was literally, over a period of 10 weeks or so,
making my life and the life of my mother, a living burning nightmare
fucking hell, and no one anywhere would or could seem to help us
against this horrible fucking sick young monster, who held the power
of life and death, literally over our heads, and was actually
torturing us and our pathetic lives in ways inconceivable. Everyone
needs a car, and he was keeping us from having ours. And this all
started, because I wanted to go down to TRUMPS NEW HOTEL CASINO in
springtime 1984. Where is Yogi Berra and his non belief in
coincidences, when you truly need him, Mister Voicemail Walmart,
sir??? Now
this was all right after I had met and interacted with the throat
specialist in northeast Philadelphia, and his magical lovely young
lab-tech assistant. He seemed to do the very same thing with her, up
in the future by 20 years give or take, that he did only a few years
away with Donna Summer, naming his ugly harbor tub, the PRINCESS,
right after I copyrighted my EPITOME OF HARASSMENT PROJECTS, really
the first one in 1988, misspelled on the copyright forms, and is why
the words 'sic' appear on the title block on these forms that I now
will re-post so that you can all see; which stands for Spelled
In-Correctly. When patters continue to reflect a repeating item of
anything is happening, the odds increase exponentially, that it is
all just up in someone's mind or just a big ass fucking coincidence.
One time, that's one thing, but then there came Mister Macy. Now at
this point of things, I was at Jenny's Park and living a hermits
life, not yet blogging on the net, as I had yet to meet Chris
Bennett, who started all of this by telling me that maybe I need to
do this to tell my story. But my real point on all of this is that
all this time I had no clue how this was all done, or even a clue as
to why. Now with the ESS, it all comes together so incredibly, that
to quote the CCR Band of the sixties, I can feel this thing's fucking
disease. And no, Jane and her weeds are not the only disease in town,
not with all of this shit for the past 30-60 mother fucking years,
great folks!!!!!!!!!!!
I
USE THE © OFFICE AS A TIME CAPSULE!
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Why
do I use the Copyright
Office
as a time capsule? Why do I endlessly look at series of ONE-NUMBERS,
when I
try so hard to avoid them?
How did all this get started? Why ever since high school, am I inside
of some wild unfathomable hell? As I said in my 1984 song, “Y JIMMY
Y, YYYYYYYYYY?????????????????????? Well, there are some answers, and
poor Steve, now the late Steve, had them, or some of them. Why did I
see the homeless bicycle man so many times after I saw him originally
up there near the area depicted by the Avalon Beach Club Cam?
YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?????????? Yes folks, Steve had some powerful
answers. He was going to tell me a lot more, but good old
Patty-Paula, stopped him, at least IMHO. Still, I will love my baby
mama forever, in my own warped ass way I suppose, dear world. When
John King put those dogs up on the roof of his radio station,
WAYV-Atlantic City, the family was sending me a very powerful
message, but in truth, no more powerful than Mister Inductotherm and
his 500,000,000 dollar message, over at the eternal life machine
college, once formerly non chemtrail known as the Glassboro State
College of New Jersey, USA. If I do ever go back in time, Donald ol'
Cuzz; it won't be to bring my teen daughter to the future, I promise
you sir. It will be to do other things, huh Mister Ernest Merker of
the Erie Tracks of Pennsy????????
Here
are a few grains of spiritual food to chew on. First off, no blog
could ever hope to adequately describe my life, not in its
supernatural reality, its horror, or its unfathomable qualities that
make anyone say it is all a balloon hoax from a total crazy nut job.
Admitting this to myself is merely accepting reality. This makes an
old coworker and semi-pal of mine from half a dozen years or so ago,
very happy!
Right
about now, it would take a million of these beautiful places and a
billion years spent there in peace and solitude, to make up for what
has been don e to me for over 8,000 years. That is just reality;
Sally Starr, and Paul Pedersen!
And
please; don't let the mighty Washcloth-TAWF clan, lock me up in
either one of these horrible secret locations. 'JOJO'
my hoho-asshoe!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
DANGER,
My
mother used to say this back in 1973 and for several years after
that. Shortly afterward, along came the great Incredible Hulk TV
SHOW, and don't tell me that someone has not been listening in to my
private life ever since the sixties, just please, OK? But
let's speak a little while about physical verses astral planes of
existence, my mother, and food; because a major situation is all tied
into this and has been all throughout infinity. My teacher, Mildred
B. Young from Cooley Hall, told me in 1972, that I need to watch out
for my mother or she will dominate and control the rest of my life.
In a strange way not bloggable, this all happened, as if she was the
biggest prophet since biblical Daniel; but a lot more than this is
happening here. Remember that right after I was not in this Cooley
Hall place with Misses Young and Mister Mackey, I was in the
Professional Careers Institute in Cherry Hill, NJ-USA, studying
Computer Programming,at the 1-Cherry Hill Building, in the Cherry
Hill Mall. This is where I met the great and powerful Mister James
Tiberius Burr. There are no coincidences when this much powerful shit
was all going down around me. Only because of the great triangulated
wormhole system of Atlantic City, Camden, and Haddonfield; could this
all have been done to me. They have to have a major source of
unfathomable inconceivable power to pull off all these fuckiGN
tricks, all this time. A moron can fucking see that much.
AUGUST
24, 2015,
MONDAY
NIGHT AT 9:00,
HERE
IN FORT PIERCE, FLORIDA.
CURRENT
TEMPERATURE 85 DEGREES FNHT.
RANGE
TODAY-----(H-92/L-73).
HUMIDITY
IS 70%, FEELING LIKE 95 DEGREES.
WIND
IS ESE AT 10, WITH GUSTS TO 11.
Only
because of this, can I make the claim as follows: I have knowledge
not readily accessible to any other mortal, because I visit with
regularity, whether any of you chooses to believe my words or not,
the great Purgatory, and I know all of the powerful Astral Gods!!!! I
no longer believe you were just Polio-Ziggy, old pal. Not after
Patty, YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I
just love this wonderful life and wonderful world, Mister and Misses
King and Queen of all sarcasm and facetious behavior!!!! Yes sir and
ma'am; Youtube is just the internet
network, or we might see it as the
fourth American network. When I called Google on several
occasions, about trying to bring traffic to any of my stuff, blogs,
Youtube posts, etcetera; they only
screwed with me, and would not allow me to join this system;
which is a blatant violation of my First
Amendment Rights under the U.S. Constitution, to free fucking cunt
speech!!!!
The
great Victoria Callio and the great Callio family;
perrrr-fect together, huh Homeland Security Ex-Chief Mister Tom Kean,
kind sir? And I promise all the horrible hunters of the world that I
sure ain't lion!!!! Even McGuire and my long dead Cousin Arthur.
JEEEEEEEEEEZ-LOUISE; Detective Fontanna, sir! These mother fuckers
just tried to freeze me and crash my program, the minute I ever say
fucking Hotel-Mascara-BOO-2010 about these nightmare horrendous
demonic fucking cunt CALLIO
PEOPLE,
YO YO YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WO
& WOW!!!!
Well,
I managed to get through another 0808, oh great ancestor-cousin of
mine, from the triple murder suicide of Braintree-Mass-USA, Mister
HH88HH88 Herbert Huntington's son, my mom's Uncle Arthur. No phony
Uncle Arthurs, Elizabeth Montgomery ma'am, the real Uncle Arthur,
YO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
CHAPTERS
41-42-43
HELL
IS FIXED IN STONE AND FIRE
NOW
A SMALL LEFT SIDE DEATH ANGEL IS STRIKING ME. WEEEEEEE, ''AIN'T LIFE
GRAND AND SWIFT''; TO QUOTE MY OLD LATENGRATE PAL, MISTER D.C.
ROTH?????????????????
ALL
SAVANTS, YO; THE END!
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